


Vir Bor'Assan

by theironyouth



Series: Vir Tanadhal [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-29 19:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3908068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theironyouth/pseuds/theironyouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solas is incensed when Inquisitor Lavellan drinks from the Well of Sorrows, and it isn't long before she realizes why. (Present-tense vignettes with spoilers.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Standing in the doorway to the tower, Mynne can almost hear Solas’ words once again. _“I did not mean to hurt you,” he had said_. He had warned her, but he had pulled her back to him time and time again, and now the words ring hollow in her heart as she stares at his desk. He is preoccupied, staring up at the frescoes he has painted. Or else he is simply refusing to acknowledge her. Her eyes narrow as the waterfall of foreign words press into the back of her mind. Having drunk from the Well, she often finds her new mental counterparts rushing to get their words out whenever she is close with Solas. The more she listens, the more she learns, and the more clearer their tone becomes. They are trying to warn her.

When he had told her the truth of her Vallaslin, offered to remove them, she had laughed. She had bore Mythal’s twisting branches long before she stepped foot into that temple, long before she had bound herself to the goddess. And now he barely speaks to her. He turns, finally allowing her a glance from the corner of his eyes and a shock causes her to jerk away from the wall she had been leaning on.

“The Wolf is here.” The words enter her mind like a knife through ribs-- resistance at first, and then as if they were made to be there. Her mind seals around the words, refusing to let them go.

Stunned, she is still for a moment, eyes wide as she stares unabashedly at him from the side. He finally turns to her, as though he is surprised, whether at her waiting or at her appearance she is uncertain. But as the shock subsides, she feels a frigid anger welling up from the pit of her stomach, working its way up her back, and the chill makes her fists curl.

Without thought she strides forward, chin lifted, eyes narrow and pulls the chair out from his desk, turning it so that she can watch him as she drops into it, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee. She pulls a small knife from her boot and begins to clean underneath her nails.

“Is there something I can help you with, Inquisitor?” Even through her rage, the moniker burns.

“Solas,” she snaps the name out from between her teeth, and he appears taken aback, but he waits. “I know you disapprove of me drinking from the Well.” His expression darkens, but she ignores him. “But I did so with the expectation that you might be willing to put your reservations aside and help me decipher the knowledge. And regardless of what has transpired between us, I still require that assistance.” She looks up to his face now, sliding her thumb along the smooth metal of her knife, and she’s not quite sure if the motion is a threat or not.

“I will do what I can,” he says, though his words are measured, his expression guarded.

“My mind appears to be adjusting well, but the voices keep repeating one phrase, and I am having trouble deciphering their meaning. I assume it is important, given their insistence.” Her eye turned back to her knife.

“And what are they saying?” he asks, but he does not want the answer.

“The Wolf is here.” She gives him the words in their ancient form, eyes flashing back up to him in time to watch his expression blanch.

He took a moment to think. “Perhaps they reference the Fen’Harel statues scattered throughout Thedas, including within Mythal’s own temple,” he said, thoughtful, turning his eyes upward as he rests a finger on his chin.

“Hm,” Mynne hums dismissively. “Perhaps. They seem much more insistent for it to be something so unimportant. Do me a favor and think on it?” she asked as she rose. “I will speak with Morrigan in the meantime. She may not be pleased that I denied her the well, but I’m certain she will assist me regardless.” She runs a thumb over the blade of her knife again. “And Solas?”

He looked back to her, expression still guarded.

“Do not continue to lie to me.” Her tone is hard, and her words are punctuated with a violent motion as she digs her knife deep into his desk. His chin tilts upwards, but his face reveals nothing as she turns away from him.


	2. Chapter 2

Inquisitor Lavellan sits on her throne, watching the nobility flit about in all their finery. Orlesian, Ferelden, even a few nobles from Antiva deigned grace her Worship with their presence. Mynne found it hard to believe that Josephine had been able to scrape up such an affair so quickly after her defeat of Corypheus, and yet, there she sat in a newly tailored green and gold tunic. Her elbow rests on the armrest of her throne and her cheek rests on her fist. She has no patience for these people, preening and congratulating themselves; they have long since stopped trying to congratulate her. It is a good thing Josephine confiscated her knives before allowing her into the main hall.

One of Leliana’s agents appears at the end of the hall, and Mynne perks up, all but jumping from her throne to stride along the hall. The shems part, curtseying and bending at the waist. She has no time for them, no interest. She hears Josephine tsk from somewhere to her right, but she ignores the woman. The human looks anxious, pale and sweating. He hesitates as he holds up the piece of parchment. It’s from Harding. She doesn’t hesitate as she breaks the seal and reads the dwarf’s neat script, a hope she doesn’t want to acknowledge blooming light and hot in her chest.

And just as quickly as it appeared, it turns to cold lead, dropping to her belly as her arms drop. She doesn’t care that the nobles are watching her with rapt attention now. The agent has already turned to flee, but she brings the letter up one more time, just to be sure. Nothing, no news. He has not been seen. The letter closes with, “I’m sorry, Inquisitor.”

She won’t admit the ache in her chest is spreading, setting into her bones. She holds the letter to one of the nearby braziers and watches the flame eat the words that speak only of betrayal. When the flames begin to stroke the tips of her fingers, she drops what is left to the stones, grinding the embers out with her boot.

 _“What we had was real.”_ The words play back in her mind, mocking her, insulting in their very essence. They were already past-tense. What they had been was already gone.

“Inquisitor,” Josephine has finally reached her, and takes gentle hold of her arm.

Mynne has not seen Solas for nearly a month, but she has been waiting for him this whole time, she realizes. But he has not returned to her, not even in her dreams. She wonders if she should call to him, if he would come. She had not been kind to him when she had learned of his identity, but he is the Dread Wolf, and should have no fear of a mortal elf.

“Inquisitor,” Josephine says again, this time more insistent, and Mynne looks to her, steeling her expression again. She had allowed it to waver, and that is unacceptable.

“I apologize,” Mynne says, “It was some much-anticipated news.” She does not smile as she looks back to the gathered guests. She has a duty, and personal wishes will come later. She has guests to attend to, whether she wants to or not, and Solas is not coming back.

* * *

Mynne’s knuckles are white as she grips the railing on her balcony. The view is illuminated by the moon and stars, but there is nothing to see, as there always has been-- snow, mountain tops. She had though it grand at first, but now it wears on her. She longs for trees and warm earth beneath her feet, a return to the familiar, before the Inquisition. But she also longs for his fingers on her skin, a return of the gentle caresses she had not thought to savor before.

He is a creature of betrayal, and she should not wish for his return. And yet, she has gathered an offering for him. She pulls the tray that holds her gifts across the barricade in front of her, glaring into them. She has not called to the gods in so long, and she has never called to Fen’Harel before, and she cannot be certain that she’s done this right, but she speaks anyway.

“Come back to me,” she whispers. It is a demand, not a request. She is no one to command a god, but she is not soft. “Return to me, Great Wolf, and tell me you did not love me.” Her grip tightens and the metal digs into her skin. “You must come and tell me that it was a lie!” She can feel a burning in her eyes, but she will not cry. She pauses, breathing, for a moment before letting out a frustrated cry and flinging the tray away from her, into the chasm.

 _“What we had was real.”_   The words return to her, unbidden, and her nails dig into her palms.

With a heavy, shaking inhale, her emotions settle. She was a fool, but even as she convinces herself that he will not come, she fears sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Mynne’s fingers are light against her fletching as she watches the woods. Her heart is heavy, but she can not say why the memories are haunting her now.

_She remembers turning to Solas in adulation-- forgetting all that passed between them. Corypheus was defeated, never to rise again. She remembered the sorrow on his face as he held a chunk of the foci he had been desperate to recover. It had shattered, and the ache in his eyes betrayed that it meant much more to him than what he had let on. But their enemy was dead, and they might finally have peace. assandra had called to her, asking if she lived. She made her way down the shattered steps, reassuring them of her survival, but turning back to look for Solas, found him absent. Leliana’s agents could find no trace of him, and for weeks, she expected to turn the corner and see him, find him sitting in his chair at the base of the tower. A month passed, and many nobles came to offer their congratulation and thanks. Still, he did not return. She traveled north to her clan, a much needed respite, time to reconnect with her people, she had told Leliana. The Spymaster had nodded, understanding, and assured her that she would send a messenger, should anything important arise, or if her agents found anything._

Wolves have been chasing away game, and the clan’s food stores are low. She has heard the pack calling, howling to each other in the night. There is one beast whose sound is unnatural, and his howl resonates in her bones. They are difficult hunting, their sharp noses challenging her years of practice. When they finally come into view, they are all black ruff and rugged bodies. Their meat will not be tender, and their coats will not be luxurious. But she draws her bow anyway, arrow releasing with a twang, and the creature yelps before fleeing.

It is not a race-- she could never outrun a wolf, but its blood leaves a crimson trail she was raised to follow, and it tires before she does. She finds the beast, and her dagger stops its heart. She prays after every kill, and this is no different, the words low under her breath, but spoken to the wind, to the trees, to whatever gods are left in the world. To him, perhaps. She stops halfway through when she feels a familiar weight on her shoulders, but she is unable to stomach the feeling. She turns with an arrow nocked and a snarl on her lips.

It is the Dread Wolf himself. He looks much the same as the wolf she has killed in order to chase away the rest of its pack, but he is larger, his eyes glowing. He blinks and there are six, a ghostly veridian. She considers letting the arrow fly. She could never hope to kill him, but she knows those eyes, knows the ache in her heart and feels it swell as he watches. Still, she lowers her bow, and bites back tears born of pain and loneliness. He warned her, she has not forgotten. The pain is her own fault, but every time she would have let him leave, he turned back to her. He chose their path as much as she did. She could never have hoped to keep him, she knows that.

She longs to reach out, feel his fur between her fingers, but her hands tremble on her bow and her feet are rooted. “Tel’abelas, ma vhenan,” she says. But the wolf is silent as he stares at her. For a moment, she considers pleading with him, entreating him to come back, for a night, so that she might see him again, but the words die in her throat and he waits.

“It would be kinder,” she echoes his words from so long ago. “But we are not kind.” Her words are a whisper, and his head drops as he turns away.


	4. Chapter 4

" _I_ am killing Solas." The words ground out between bared teeth, and she _meant_ them, she tells herself. Her companions stayed behind to fight the rest of the Qunari that didn't flee through the mirror as she gives chase. The Qunari that went first are stone, bodies twisted mid-motion, mid-throw. They had no time to think of what was happening, to realize they had no chance against the Dread Wolf. She has the time.

Despite the lancing pain in her arm, the near incessant green glow that has robbed her of her life, writhing at the edge of her vision for days, she stalks through the ruins, stone bodies shortly giving way to more flowers, more steps. His voice carries on the air, and she stops. The sound once so comforting and welcome is now a blade running down her spine. Her hand pulses, and she lets out a hiss, reminded of her duty. Her right fist clenches around the hilt of her knife.

Her mind is silent, the Well offering nothing, warning her of nothing as she watches the Viddasala lifts a spear, roaring, only to stop, rage sealed forever in stone. Solas' steps towards yet another elluvian were unperturbed. In a sarcastic flash of thought, Mynne considers that Vivienne might be impressed to see their "unwashed apostate" in all his finery.

She hesitates, but her feet follow. Her steps through the water are quiet, the sound masked by his own. She makes it almost within leaping distance before her arm surges, searing pain ripping out from her palm and tearing a cry from her throat, half pain, half frustration. Her steps stumble, and she takes to her knees. He slows and turns, expression obscured by the fur draped across his shoulder.

"Fen'Harel." The name is a panted snarl against the pain, snapped out at him, as much an accusation as a summons while she attempts to stagger back to her feet. He takes in a low breath but says nothing as he approaches, steps measured. She watches as his eyes flash silver-- a sign of magic she's certain-- and the pain fades, relegated to a low hum. She pushes herself to her feet, dagger still clenched in her hand as her left arm falls limp.

"That should give us more time." The expression on his face makes her stomach churn and she sneers. "I suspect you have questions."

"Do not patronize me." Despite the lessening of the pain, her words are strained. She refuses to admit that the tightness of her throat might be from something greater.

"I was Solas first."

"The orb. Corpyheus' orb--"

"Was mine."

A laugh, dry and rueful, slips from her lips. "Then this," she pauses as she lifts her arm, "is yours." She's too far-- she knows she can't strike him before he will realize what's happening, before she, too, is nothing more than stone.

"In the end, I am the only one who could have borne the mark and lived."

"Everything was a lie! I l--." Mynne stops as her throat tightens again and her eyes burn. When she continues, her voice is lower. "Did you really think I would not have understood?" She makes a sharp motion to indicate her frustration and steps closer.

"Ir abelas, Vhenan."

"Do not-- call me that." She brings the point of her blade up, pointing it at him, her threat renewed even as she measures. She must be closer. "As I told you years ago-- do not continue to lie to me." He eyes the weapon, but says nothing, watching with a guarded expression as she lowers it. "Why are you doing this?"

"I am not lying. I sought to free my people from would-be Gods, and so, created the Veil-- thus I destroyed the world. The veil took everything from the elves, even themselves. But there is still hope. I will save the Elven people, even if it means this world must die."

"This is not the answer." She ventures another step.

"Not a good one, no." He pauses, taking in a long breath, and Mynne's eyes narrow. "You must understand. I awoke in a world where the veil had blocked most people's conscious connection to the Fade. It was like walking through a world of Tranquil."

"This is your own doing, and we aren't even people to you." Mynne's chin lifts, an angry swell of injured pride blooming in her chest. "Not the members of the Inquisition, not your agents. Not even me."

Solas' face twists, but she doubts his expression. "You showed me that I was wrong once more. That doesn't make what must come next any easier."

"On that we can agree." She can feel the burning growing in her arm again, and her left fingers curl, or she thinks they are curling. She hasn't been able to feel them in days.

Solas shakes his head. "You have shown me that there is value in this world. That is why I disrupted the Qunari plot. I am not a monster."

"No. Just another Evanuris." Mynne sneers as she insults him, and his eyes widen. She steps forward. "With no regard for the lives you will take, for those of us who are not true Elvhen-- for those you have found wanting-- for those you have _made_ wanting." Solas' lips move to form words to deny her, but Mynne curls her left arm to her chest, groaning despite herself. "It doesn't matter." One more step and she is close enough.

One more step and she stumbles, the magic in her arm throwing her off balance as the pain sears raw and brutal in her skull. There are hands on her shoulders, supporting her weight as she lowers to the flagstones. "Drawing you here gave me the chance to save you... at least for now."

"I never asked you to do that." She jerks, and catches him by surprise. The curve of her dagger presses against his throat, drawing a thin slice of blood even as her hand shakes. "You have taken _everything_ from me."

"I know, Vhenan, and I am sorry."

Her teeth grind as her blade pulls. She will kill him, she must kill him. Hot, angry tears bud in her eyes, and she growls as the pain wracks her again, and she knows it must be done. But she can't. With another scream of pain and frustration, she drops the knife from his throat. She's too weak. She feels his forehead press against hers. "Stay with me. Do not continue on this path." The words are quiet, and she almost regrets letting them out.

"I wish I could, my love."

She catches the flash of silver in his eyes again, and the pain in her arm starts to die. He starts to pull away but she catches his cheek and turns his face back to her. The kiss is full of anger and regret, but there's desperation too, and he presses into it as fervently as she does.

"I will never forget you." The words are low, tinged with regret. For what, Mynne isn't certain.

She pushes herself to her feet as he strides away, watching as he steps through the mirror. She will kill him.


End file.
